Images of Anakin
by Ziggy Sternenstaub
Summary: This is a drop spot for Anakin/Vader drabbles and shorts that otherwise have no home. Update: A post-ROTJ look back at Anakin's regrets.
1. They so calmly disdain to destroy us

**They so calmly disdain to destroy us**

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

_"For beauty is nothing but the onset of terror we're still just able to bear, and we admire it so because it calmly disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrifying._" -Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies

This was Hell. Knowing that he had a thousand choices and that all of them were terrible, that all of them would lead to either damnation or mediocrity-two things that Anakin Skywalker could not face without the fear some swore he didn't know the meaning of. And what kind of person did it make him that he thought damnation seemed the better option?

The kind of person in whose ears a Sith Lord would whisper dire promises and temptation so transparently hinged on need that they went right past ludicrous and back to being more tempting than anything he'd heard in his life. To know that no one but a demon in flesh cared that he was dying inside made him yearn all the more terribly to fling his rage in the faces of those who had betrayed him by rejecting all knowledge of need and want. What would happen then? The Darkness would descend and he would become one with it-if only the one offering that Darkness had not betrayed him in equal measure, had not lied to his face for thirteen years and dared to say now that he offered his twisted gifts out of love? He dared!

The Jedi's footfalls ate up the corridor, fleeing progressively from the Chancellor's office, fleeing the eyes that pretended to be kind. Anakin had no one, least of all Palpatine of Naboo. So too would he find no answers with Padme, the shining icon of his shattered future, the one whose passion he once thought would mend his soul. But she needed him to save her, and in needing she eliminated whatever succor he might have taken from her liquid eyes and lovely body, the hallmarks of her imagined angelic provenance.

Even the beauty of Angels was now a bitter reminder of the future he had lost. Legends said that that most wonderous of races was the descendent of celestial spirits, tremendous, magnificent beings formed of the very ether, children of the hydrogen, dust and fire that composed the solar winds. Such beings were said to be manifestations of the Light itself, warriors to battle the darkness in the heart of every sapient being-terrible and ominscient guardians of Life.

Where were such mighty spirits now, in the darkest hour of Anakin's life? Where was the saving Word that would lift him from the filth and dull agony of his thousand bitter choices? Choices! What were they? What did he have? Trapped in a perdition of his own making, would be go with Padme to Naboo and watch her die giving birth to the child he already hated for its theft? Would he live in exile, banished from the Knighthood that was his life's blood, living out an existence of whose grotesque ordinariness he could not even conceive?

He was meant for more than that! Other beings might be happy enough to simply live, to eek out a dull continuance consisting of one day that looked exactly like the next, time without end, but he would not! He was better than that!

And yet what could he do? Go to the Jedi and bend down on penitent knee, to say 'I was wrong,' and mindlessly accept the tenents of an Order whose rejection of love and need and everything that it meant to be alive rankled almost as much as their betrayal?

At the moment that left only Palpatine's offer: to become his apprentice, to save Padme, and to owe everything to a man he now despised. And that he would not do.

Anakin climbed into his ship and set course for the temple. Tears of fury and infinite weariness blurred his vision. His course was erratic and dangerous, and grimly he hoped for an accident, for a blaze of twisted shrapnel and a fall with no end but the end to his misery. If the Angels could see the his grief and Darkness, why did they not strike him down, destroy the hideous threat that grew in his sword arm and his heart?

But this was Hell. And the Angels did nothing.


	2. Regret

I recently fell back into Star Wars, just in time for all-time internet apathy, I think. Anyway, I'm writing again, but this isn't new. It was written in 2010; forgotten about, and I just found it again on my computer. It's a short set in the universe of _Anakin Skywalker: Lord of the Sith_, which I since deleted as a result of intense dissatisfaction with its execution. But not to worry if you've never read it; all you need to know is that it was a post-ROTJ Vader lives! fic.

Regret

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

Anakin Skywalker's back and shoulders still hummed with the cold burn of his son's embrace, as did the promise his son had extracted from Anakin's treacherous lips.

_"Trust me, Father."_

_"I trust you, my son."_

Sitting alone in the cockpit of a Nubian 240 Bongo, the former Darth Vader slowly lowered his head to touch the console, taking comfort from the familiar electronic element. Did he trust his son? A loaded question: a Jedi was not to be trusted. But Luke was no Jedi of old: he felt; he loved; he desired, and his desire made him accessible, if not predictable. If the boy could be trusted to do nothing else, he could be trusted to champion the ongoing quest to save his father's soul. But his touch still burned, and Anakin could not help but think of others who had laid claim to that same bitter offering: Qui-Gon, who had overwhelmed a young desert boy with his charisma and determination, who had ultimately determined the path of Anakin's future; then Obi-Wan, who had guided him with his esoteric teachings, breaking the loyalties of his past and remaking him in the mould of the Jedi Order. It was his Jedi master's betrayal that had sent Anakin into the far more demanding arms of his final master: Palpatine.

Anakin leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. Palpatine. The very name conjured mixed feelings. How easy it had been to bow so completely to the will of another, to allow himself to be re-made into an unquestioning weapon. How easy it had been then, and how difficult life was now. Never before had Anakin been so completely free, and the process of making his own decisions was...challenging. His plans were firm, but the way seemed vague and uncertain, and Palpatine, too, was slow to loosen his grip. Sometimes, lying awake at night, wondering what his future held, Anakin seemed to hear the monarch murmur to him; feel his gnarled grip tense upon his shoulder.

_You are mine, Lord Vader._

Slowly, Anakin looked about, equally certain and uncertain of having heard the slow drawl of that embracing voice. Was it the master's malignant ghost come to taunt him, or his own treacherous heart? Was he so dependent on the ownership of another, or had the ownership of one man come to mean more than it should? Why should he remember his dread lord, when Palpatine too had betrayed him, perhaps more terribly than any other. Who once had been a trusted mentor, a dear and respected friend, had become the devil that owned him, body and soul.

Suddenly overcome by rage, Anakin slammed his steel fist into the edge of the console. Sharp edges lacerated the synth-skin, and Skywalker clenched his hand ever-more tightly, as if to steal the breath from another in a long line of helpless victims. Betrayal stood large in his memory, but so too did an even more bitter longing: to kneel before his master again in worship and see his enigmatic smile; to drink the malignant approval of his golden eyes.

_You are mine, Lord Vader._

This time Anakin did not look behind him. The voice was a mere conjuring, no vengeful spirit: and Anakin regreted only his regret.

* * *

In the past couple of years or so I've received several deeply touching anonymous reviews that I only wish I could have responded to more personally and immediately. Upon reviewing my posted stories recently, I felt the urge again, and this was the large part of my motivation for posting this short now. To that end, I am thankful to "Another reader," "The Reader," and "allusions to rilke." If any of you happen to read this long-overdue response, know that I am grateful.


End file.
